


Noble As Dirt

by Runespoor



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon, shippy parading as gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:38:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Runespoor/pseuds/Runespoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A long time before the wars broke out, Sothe was just a kid living on the streets of Nevassa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noble As Dirt

For a few days you've been looking at her. Watching her. 

You're not sure why you do. She's not the first person you've been watching, but she's certainly the poorest. 

Usually you only watch the people you can pinch from, or else those who can be a threat to you. She's not the first girl you watch either, but again, usually the girls are rich things dolled up in lavish dresses. 

You see them riding past in gilded coaches, and they all look the same from where you stand, their hair carefully done in flawless curls that impeccably frame their lovely face, all the same way, all the same face, looking down their nose at what's outside. When by chance their eyes fall on you their uniformly immaculate brow pucker up in disgust. What an unpleasant surprise, one of these filthy street urchins crawled its way out of Nevassa's reeking bowels, sullying the white pavement of the noble districts and gawking up at them. 

Even the wrinkling doesn't manage to mar the schooled perfection of their features.

You dream of getting your revenge on them, but you know you're not good enough a thief for that. Not yet. 

Someday the lackeys and the butlers and the armies of servants won't chase you away. Someday they won't see you as you slip past them, breach into one of these fucking palaces they dare call houses, stand with your own two filthy street-urchin feet on the tiled marble and swipe all those riches they're keeping away from the rest of you. 

She's not like them.

She's not like the fat merchants you generally lift from either – at least, they're fat to you. Anyone with their bones not sticking out of their skin would seem fat to you. It's been a while since you've had a real roof over your head, but you'd rather not think of that. You're never going back to the orphanage, anyway. 

She's a waste of your time, you think as you're kicking idly a pebble a few meters away from a tavern. 

It's just a coincidence if it's the tavern you know she goes at.

You're not sure what she does there, and you don't care. 

Last time you tried to sneak in they caught you and threw you out. That pissed you off. Like there would ever be any guard to arrest them for letting you in, anyway! And it's not even one of those whore-tavern-places where the girls, even the waitresses, aren't wearing anything decent, so it makes even less sense that they wouldn't let you enter. 

And you know she's not a waitress from the times you've looked in by the windows – she's just sitting at a table and you don't know what else she does, because then the barman saw you and sent the big guy chasing after you and you had to run faster than if you'd blagged shit from their stinking tavern.

It's not like you're waiting for her to come out. 

Two men walk past you. You feel your scowl deepening. You know these guys. You've been seeing them walk past you every day since you started (you flounder a few moments for something that won't imply--) since you started spending your evenings here. 

You've got reasons for spending your evenings here too. It's a nice street corner. Not many guards. A small ledge thingy of the wall to keep you dry when it's raining. Only downside is the hookers. So long as you ignore the occasional teasing you're alright. 

Like every night, they enter the tavern, releasing a sudden assault of loud noises and various fumes you're starting to get used to. Don't they have anything better than to come squander what little money they've got? They've got a wife and kids waiting for them at home, you'd bet, the assholes. 

There's a snicker not far. Obviously directed at you. You pretend not to hear. Hookers.

“Careful with drafts, kid!”

It's the woman two doorsteps away. She's sounding a little giggly, but not too mocking. You can answer and not lose face. Besides, that made no sense.

“...What?” Well, that was grumpy.

She clicks her tongue.

“Your face, kid. They say if there's a draft, your face'll get stuck this way.”

“They're saying bullshit anyway.” 

She shrugs. “Maybe,” she consents. “But it's not making you look any tougher, so you'd better just drop it.”

That makes your hackles rise.

“Who says I want to look tough?... And I _am_ tough!”

She puts her hand on her eyes and laughs. Your cheeks are burning. You resist the urge to add anything because that'd only make her laugh harder. 

You resist that urge by clamping down on your lip. Hard. You really want to retort something, but you're not sure exactly what. If you keep this up, you're wise enough to realize, you're gonna end up stomping your foot. And that'd be just lame.

Instead you snap away, turning back toward the tavern's heavy door, and glaring at the wood as if you wanted to bore a hole through that fucking door. Which wouldn't be such a bad idea now you're thinking about it. The woman's laugh rings in your ears. Ugly old hag.

Finally her laughter subsides into a cough, bone-rapping and dry and long. You keep sending dirty looks at the door.

“You think you've got what it takes, boy?” she wheezes.

“...I'll get tougher.”

You'd have expected her to snort. You don't like people who underestimate you. 

Just because you're a kid doesn't mean that you're not going to do... you don't know what exactly, but you know you'll do things. You're gonna grow up, and you're not going to stay a nobody shitty pickpocket for your whole life. You don't want to be a noble, you don't care about becoming one of them rich fuckers in their golden houses, cause from down here in the gutter you know that their houses, they're built on corpses. They're not gonna stay on top forever anyway.

She doesn't snort. She leans back against her door frame, putting a hand on her hip.

“You'll need to get a lot tougher than you are today if you want to get the girl,” she says, contemplative.

You startle nearly out of your skin and the next thing you know you're looking at her again, indignation flushing your cheeks. You don't care about-- about any girl!

“What?! I don't want to get her!” 

You falter a little when you notice your mouth's betrayal, but it only makes you narrow your eyes more at the crazy ugly old hag.

She smiles that smile that means whatever you say, I'm not believing a word you're saying. You've only recently got the trick, but if the reactions you're getting is any proof, you're doing it right. When it's directed at you, it makes you clench your fists and let your nails bite into the palms of your hands.

“I don't even know what girl you're yakking about!” You deny everything vehemently, brusquely. “I hate girls!”

Well, no, not anymore you don't, but it wasn't that long ago when girls were nothing you wanted to have anything to do with. You still don't like them, but you don't really like anyone anyway, and you still don't want to have anything to do with any of them, so that hasn't changed. Especially the girl inside the tavern. 

The whore's eyebrows raise. Obviously, she's not impressed.

“Then why're you always waiting for her here?”

You lick your lips. It's getting cold out here, your saliva prickles before soothing the chapped skin of your lips.

“I—I'm just hangin' on to see what's her deal!” 

“Her... deal?” 

The amusement in her voice flies leagues over your head.

“Yeah!” 

You're warming up to your subject. You've got a ton of ideas, now, as to why you could be watching her. 

“Maybe she's a spy for the nobles! Or maybe she's a grass for the guards! She could get us in trouble! Maybe she'll get hurt!”

You're blurting it all out all at the same time. 

“So I'm, I'm watching her!”

You also miss that your second-to-last sentence completely contradicts the rest of your speech.

“I know you are, kid.” The woman is faintly smiling. “She's not anything bad. You could do worse than getting hung up on her.”

The tavern's door opens again, so you don't have to cover for the fact that the words are eluding you. You take the opportunity to avoid the woman's sardonic gaze.

She comes out.

She pauses on the doorstep for a moment to rearrange the folds of her cloak around her body, pulls the door shut behind her with one hand while she fumbles with her scarf and her hair. The white locks fall free around her face. She draws her hood over her head and strides away.

You only start breathing again once her feet turn the corner. When you look up, the woman's smirking at you.

“There she go-oes,” she says in a sing-song voice.

“Shut up,” you tell her, and you hurry away.

But just because you don't want to hear anything else she can come up with. Certainly not because the girl is out of the tavern for tonight.

Really.


End file.
